The Art of War
by Apple of the Hesperides
Summary: Post-Blight. Not all wars are fought with swords and daggers. Following the defeat of the Archdemon, a dethroned queen awaits her fate in Fort Drakon as Alistair and Alecto Cousland contend with a new threat.
1. Chapter 1 - The Bastard on the Throne

**Author's Note**: At the end of _Dragon Age: Origins_, there is much ambiguity surrounding Anora's fate if she loses the Landsmeet. Does she remain imprisoned in Fort Drakon? Is she executed by Alistair after the Blight? What happens if Alistair ascends the throne without either Anora or Cousland as his queen? This story explores the political implications of Anora's imprisonment and Alistair's reign from the perspectives of Alistair, Anora, and Cousland. Politics, intrigue, and betrayal abound!

I've done my best to stay true to the lore of _Dragon Age_. Feedback is always welcome. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** _Dragon Age_ and its characters belong to Bioware.

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Chapter One - The Bastard on the Throne

The resemblance was striking, once he donned Cailan's armour and his father's crown. None could deny Theirin blood flowed in his veins. He fought like Maric and had something of Cailan's cheerful demeanour, or at least his propensity to play the charming fool when it suited him.

If he wore the faces of the dead, he also carried the shadow of their legacy. As Maric's bastard, Alistair was an unlikely contender for the throne. Had Cailan survived Ostagar, his tenuous claim would've been no more than a footnote in the annals of history. But evidently, the Maker had a different plan.

By all rights, he shouldn't even be here, but Alistair supposed the witch's ritual was to thank for that. Six months ago, he'd been ready to die, to deliver the killing blow that would save Ferelden from the Blight, or at least perish in the attempt. But _she_ had swayed him from that path. She wanted to live. And she wanted him to live. She had told him he was of greater value to his people alive than dead. Ferelden would need to rebuild after the Blight, and she could not do it without him. It was, she had stated with such conviction, the only way.

Even in the face of certain defeat, she had been a pragmatist. Now, somewhere in this forsaken land, a bastard bearing his blood and the soul of an Old God grew in that witch's womb. A child who would grow up not knowing his father. It was a familiar story. Perhaps he took after Maric in more ways than physical appearance, Alistair thought bitterly.

Was it too high a price to pay for their lives? Alistair sought out her green eyes and felt a familiar stab in his heart as she met his gaze. She wore a dress of green and gold today with her dark hair coiled in braids. Her proud features softened as she looked at him. There was an uncharacteristic warmth she reserved only for him. Alecto Cousland was something of an enigma to him, even now after all they had been through. The woman who had gutted an Archdemon from neck to belly and drove a sword into its head. The revered Hero of Ferelden. The woman who had put him on the throne, who shared his bed but not his crown.

Eamon had professed his surprise to him after the Landsmeet that she hadn't declared herself as the queen consort. More than his lover, she was also the daughter of Bryce Cousland and the successor to the Terynir of Highever before they had found out Fergus was still alive. In Eamon's words, it would've been a politically advantageous match. Yet, she had said nothing to that effect during the Landsmeet. This was before Alistair had told her about the taint in her veins that would prevent her from ever bearing a child of her own. And even then, she could've persuaded him of anything, but she didn't, and he knew it was not because she lacked the ambition.

He remembered feeling so sick after the Landsmeet. A million things had run through his head. The implications of being king had terrified him, and terrified him still. But she had looked so calm, as if executing Ferelden's greatest general and proclaiming a bastard to his father's throne was just another day in the ragtag adventure that was her life.

There would be the need to ensure the continuation of the Theirin line, Alistair had told her guiltily after the Landsmeet, and it wouldn't be fair to her or to the woman he would eventually need to marry if he kept her as a mistress. She had simply shrugged and told him it was quite all right, though she didn't see the need to end their relationship.

"Being king isn't a punishment, you know?" she had given him a cheeky grin, "and besides, you'll need all the help you can get."

He couldn't argue with that. And part of him wanted her to stay by his side, even if she deserved far better. Alecto Cousland was indeed a riddle. The one woman he wanted to understand above all else, the closest thing to his heart and the furthest away. She, who at this very moment, was bestowing him a secret smile from the upper gallery of the throne room.

Pay attention, she mouthed the words silently. He must've looked dazed.

"Perhaps the king is more interested in making eyes at Lady Cousland than in the plight of his own people."

A hush fell over the assembly. Alistair found himself staring into the dour face of Bann Tyber of River Dane. The staunch Loghain ally had remained a thorn in Alistair's side even after the former's death. Too clever to topple, too powerful to ignore.

"We were discussing the possibility of reopening trade with Orlais," Arl Eamon supplied helpfully, just in case the young Theirin king was not paying attention to the debate at hand. Alistair appreciated this gesture, even if it somewhat confirmed the nobility's suspicion that he was, in fact, more interested in the enigma that was Alecto Cousland than in their petty squabbles over trade and Orlais.

From the corner of his eye, he could see her features harden as she turned to appraise the bann. The smile which had graced her lips only moments ago was replaced with thinly veiled contempt. She treated everything as a battlefield to be analyzed and dissected. He always admired this about her. She was calm and collected in ways he was not.

In war, the cooler head always prevailed.

"You must forgive my occasional inattentiveness, Bann Tyber," Alistair rolled his eyes, "not even my Chantry upbringing prepared me for such long-winded speeches. I'd appreciate if you made more use of commas in the future. And periods. And natural pauses in between breaths."

A few in the audience chuckled, but Bann Tyber's expression remained implacable.

"Ah," the bann threw his arms up mockingly, "so the king jests while his people starve."

Alistair felt his patience sap into thin air.

"They needn't starve if we reestablish trade with Orlais," he countered exasperatedly, "the treasury needs to be replenished. Trade with Orlais will provide us the gold and the means of rebuilding Ferelden and resettling those whose homes were lost during the Blight!"

"Measures intended to only enrich the coastal lands of Amaranthine and Highever," the bann glanced slyly in the direction of Alecto, "one could only speculate why."

"I don't like what you're inferring, Bann Tyber," Alistair narrowed his eyes.

"Simply that it has never been the crown's position to appease those who once ravaged our lands and would see us shackled once more."

"The times have changed, Bann Tyber," said Alistair, "with so many darkspawn still on the surface, the Orlesians are not our enemies."

"You do great disservice to your predecessor if you truly believe that, Your Majesty."

Many in the crowd murmured their assent.

"My predecessor? Loghain betrayed my brother at Ostagar, and he would've destroyed Ferelden for fear of Orlais."

"I speak of Lady Anora, Your Majesty," the bann's eyes flashed dangerously, "she would've taken the threat seriously. She would not have bent over for Orlais. And King Cailan was your _half-brother,_ Your Majesty, perhaps consorting with the Grey Wardens has addled your memory."

The room fell silent. Ah, he was wondering when that topic would come up. Alistair the Bastard, the bann would never let him forget that.

"That's enough, Bann Tyber," Arl Eamon hissed, "you forget you place."

"Oh," the bann's eyes glittered cruelly, "King Maric was Your Majesty's father, but Queen Rowan was not Your Majesty's mother, which would make King Cailan only Your Majesty's half-brother. Am I wrong?"

Alistair felt his face burn. Was it humiliation or anger? Or both? He wished he had his sword by his side. What he wouldn't give for the chance to bash in the bann's smug face. He searched his head for a clever retort. She cleared her throat first.

"That is not the subject at hand, Bann Tyber," her voice rang through the assembly, cold and clear as a winter's day, "and you do your argument disservice by resorting to such underhanded tactics. Trade with Orlais would benefit all of Ferelden, not just Amaranthine and Highever. In the days of King Cailan, the imperial highway bustled with caravans to and from the Bannorn. Would you not have that again? A trade agreement is hardly precursor to war."

"Hear, hear!" the Arl of South Reach clapped.

"So the Lady Cousland fights his battles in court and on the battlefield," Bann Tyber sneered, "I defer to her infinite wisdom."

"Perhaps it would be best if we adjourned the assembly for another day?" Arl Eamon asked. Alistair could only nod. The assembly scattered.

He wanted to seek her out, but she had already disappeared from the throne room. Instead, he was ambushed by Arl Eamon, who ushered him into a side room.

"Well, I think that went well," Alistair broke the silence with cheery sarcasm.

"You dealt poorly with Bann Tyber today," Eamon sighed, "the bann raised a valid concern shared by many of your subjects. It was…unwise to deflect his charge with flippancy."

He was a king and no longer Eamon's ward, but that hardly stopped Eamon from chastising him like a child from time to time. Though in another time and in another place, Eamon would've substituted a far harsher word for _unwise_.

"What would you have had me do?" Alistair asked, "admit to the whole assembly that I was staring at Lady Cousland and not listening to that crusty old man?"

Eamon frowned. "As you chancellor, I am obliged to remind you that your position is hardly secure, even now. We must not forget the Landsmeet had voted in favour of Anora. Were it not for the Grand Cleric's interference and the duel…" he trailed off and shook his head, "our heads would no doubt adorn the gates of Fort Drakon by now."

"Then what do you propose we do?" Alistair asked.

There was still so much he needed to learn about ruling. He was far better suited to fighting darkspawn than being king.

"Anora was well-loved by the nobility and commoners alike," Eamon answered darkly, "even with her imprisoned, there are still many who sympathize with her cause, people like Bann Tyber. We will need to do something about that, and soon."

Alistair did not like what he was implying. Eamon's vagueness always meant something bad was going to happen.

He missed the thrill of fighting a horde of darkspawn by Alecto's side, or running down the paths of Redcliffe as a child. Things were simpler back then.

He wanted nothing more than to hide in a closet again with a stolen platter of cheese.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: Her Father's Daughter - Anora receives a visit from the Bann of River Dane in Fort Drakon.

And so it begins, my first attempt at fanfiction. Let me know what you think. Feedback is always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2 - Her Father's Daughter

Chapter Two - Her Father's Daughter

The commoners avoided Fort Drakon. In their minds, it was a place haunted by blood and death, where those who had offended the crown were sent and never seen again. This was only partially true. Before Fort Drakon was a prison, it had been a symbol of the Tevinter Imperium's might. It had been a royal abode during the final days of the Orlesian occupation, where Meghren had barricaded himself with his supporters while the rebels laid siege to Denerim.

For Anora, Fort Drakon was a beautiful cage.

Her lodgings were fit for a queen. They had given back her fineries and her jewels. She dressed in silk and ermine was served by a retinue of four handmaidens and a dedicated cook. The guards treated her with respect and she was even allowed the occasional guest. None of this mattered to Anora, for she would gladly trade them all away for her freedom.

"You have a guest, my lady," Erlina entered the sitting room. She looked knowingly at her mistress. Anora set aside her parchment and quill.

The man who entered was old and wizened. He tossed a heavy purse to the guard standing by the door, who promptly left without a word.

"Bann Tyber," she stood up eagerly, "what news do you bring?"

Anora remembered a tall proud man with fierce blue eyes and raven hair, who had presented her with her first sword. The man before her now bore little resemblance to the giant of her childhood. He seemed frail and faded. The years have ebbed away at his vitality. Dark circles framed his eyes and his hair had turned stark white. But in his bearing, Anora observed proudly, there was strength and determination yet.

He fights still, she thought, as do I.

He waited for her to sit down before taking a seat himself by the fire. "The Bastard King," he spat out the words with contempt, "plans to reopen trade with Orlais."

It was not an unwise policy given the state of the treasury, but she was all too aware of the bann's mistrust of Orlais. His family had been slain during the Orlesian occupation, save for a sister, who suffered a far worse fate at the hands of the Chevaliers.

"I imagine Highever and the Coastlands would be pleased," she chose her words carefully, "for they stand to benefit the most from this agreement."

"The whore speaks and the bastard jumps," said the bann, "it does not take a wise man to see who wields the real power in Ferelden. And there's Eamon, of course."

She nodded absentmindedly. The forces of Redcliffe and the gold of Highever—a potent combination.

She'd only met Maric's bastard once, six months ago at the Landsmeet, but she knew of him from Cailan. Physical resemblance aside, they were also oddly alike in personality. The same crooked smile and tongue-in-cheek humour. The same deference to women who were far more adept at handling the responsibility of the throne.

Anora pushed all thoughts of her dead husband away. It was not easy. Sometimes, she saw him still in her dreams. Her father too. The same scene replayed over and over again. The green-eyed Cousland girl bringing her sword down on her father's neck. His blood, still warm, splattering against her cold skin.

She had thought she would be executed then, alongside her father, but Maric's bastard merely locked her away, even promising her the throne should he fall in battle against the Blight. She had been surprised. It was not an act of clemency she would've extended to him.

"I'm surprised Lady Cousland does not rule by his side," she wondered aloud. Even the woman's name left a bitter taste in her mouth. "She's already a queen in all but name."

"It is said she cannot bear children," the bann answered.

"Because of the Taint?" asked Anora.

The bann nodded.

Were Alecto Cousland anyone but Alecto Cousland, the woman who executed her father in cold blood, she would've had Anora's sympathy. Her predicament was one Anora understood well—the inability to bear an heir of Theirin blood.

For five years Anora had been married to Cailan, and for five years she had not borne him a single child. She knew, at Eamon's urging, that he had been thinking of setting her aside for a younger queen. He might've succeeded too were it not for the debacle at Ostagar.

Cailan's decision had hurt her more than she cared to admit. Was preserving the Theirin bloodline so important? She wondered. Cailan had known next to nothing about ruling. She had attended his council meetings, wrote his missives, arbitrated the disputes of his subjects, and in the end, he still treated her like a brooding mare.

Anora stood up and wandered to the window. The room was so cold.

"Throw another log into the fire, Erlina," she commanded.

"If Alistair dies without leaving an heir," she deduced, "I suppose the throne will go to Eamon or Teagan. The Landsmeet may even elect Fergus Cousland."

"Or you."

"Or me," Anora repeated, "if I live to see the day."

Why she still breathed mystified even herself. The bann insisted it was because she still commanded the love of the people of Ferelden. Anora was not so sure. She wondered if it had something to do with the young Theirin king. Perhaps he was too soft for his own good. The quality of mercy was not a desirable trait in a monarch.

The bann moved to stand next to her. "There are some of us," he paused and looked at her, "who believe the time has come to see the throne of Ferelden restored to one who respects its history and traditions."

"The trade agreement with Orlais notwithstanding," he continued, "the boy has also raised an elf to the Bann of Denerim's Alienage. You can imagine the nobles are less than pleased. Riots have broken out in Denerim. You still have many friends at court, my lady," he dropped his voice, "who would gladly support your cause should you—"

"Decide to seize the throne by force?" she arched an eyebrow.

"The King's Army had been decimated at Ostagar," said the bann, "and most of the Warden's allies have now returned to their homelands. If we rally enough support from the Bannorn, we have more than a fighting chance."

"You're asking me to start a civil war."

"Sometimes bloodshed is necessary to bring about a greater good. Your father understood this."

_Father_.

"It is the only way," she could feel the bann's eyes on her, "either you leave Fort Drakon as a queen, or not at all."

Anora watched the snow fall.

_Father would want her to decide her own fate_.

She turned to Bann Tyber, "How soon can we be ready?"

The bann smiled.

They sat down and discussed strategies by the roaring fire. She felt like her old self again. A Queen.

"I will need to leave Denerim for some time to make the necessary arrangements," said the bann apologetically as he readied to depart, "Bann Wilmot will serve as your liaison while I'm gone."

"Can he be trusted?" she asked.

"Your father saved his life at the Battle of Southron Hills, he owes you a blood debt."

Father had saved many lives during the rebellion, she mused, but that hardly stopped them from turning against him at the Landsmeet. How bitter were his last moments, betrayed and beaten by far lesser men?

"Bann Tyber," she stopped him by the door, "may I ask you for a favour, before you leave?"

He turned to look at her questioningly.

"Anything, my lady."

"Would you bring some flowers to my father's grave? I would do it myself, but…" she gestured to her surroundings.

The bann kissed her hand. "It would be my honour, _my queen._ Your father was my friend, and I am yours."

She bowed her head gratefully and pressed a small iron ring, a keepsake of her father's, into his hand.

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**Next Chapter - **Necessity's Child - A duel between two Grey Wardens

Thanks for reading everyone. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Feedback is always welcome. Please drop me a line if you have time.


	3. Chapter 3 - Necessity's Child

**Author's Note: **First order of business, I want to thank you all for your continued interest in this story, your kind words, and your suggestions. Second order of business, Happy Tuesday.

Chapter Three - Necessity's Child

"Did you know that they're erecting a statue in your honour in the Market District?" Zevran told her smugly. "The Pearl is paying for it too."

"How lovely," Alecto murmured, casting a sidelong glance at her former companion and present source of headache. The elf stood no higher than her shoulders and was staring intently at her bosom.

"I hope they get your breasts right," he favoured her with a lascivious smile. She sighed. As fond as she was of their banters, any conversation with Zevran inevitably always led to this. On a good day, she would humour him with a few sordid remarks of her own, but today was not a good day. She turned away and resumed watching the servants assemble a pavilion in the centre of the courtyard.

"Filthy nug-licker," Oghren muttered under his breath and went back to polishing his axe.

"Our Alistair is a lucky boy," Zevran ignored his comment and winked at her, "to have all this to himself. Has no one taught him that sharing is caring?" The elf feigned a pout, "Of course, time will tell whether they hold up as nicely as Wynne's. I know you're listening, Wynne."

Under the shade of a willow tree, Wynne sighed. "I will not engage you in this conversation again," she told the elf sternly.

"I will get you one day, my dearest Wynne!" Zevran responded cheerfully with a twinkle in his eyes, "Let it be known that Zevran Arainai never gives up."

"Maker give me strength," Wynne shook her head and left in a huff.

Alecto smiled wistfully and gazed off into the distance again. The elf sidled up to her with a curious glance.

"You know," he said, "for one who has slain an Archdemon, you really could do with more joviality. In Antiva, we parade our heroes through the streets. Young, naked women throw themselves at their feet. Young, naked men too. They drink. They laugh. They make merriment. They indulge in pleasure. Here in Ferelden," he turned up his nose in distaste, "you celebrate a little, and then it's back to 'oh no, we have no gold in our treasury' and 'oh no, the darkspawn destroyed my village'. There's no…_joie de vivre_, as the Orlesians would say."

"Some of us put duty before pleasure," she answered imperiously, "perhaps it's the reason why we're all still alive."

"Ah, duty! Such a cold word," Zevran wagged his finger, "have you never eaten jam straight from a jar? Or made love to a handsome Templar in the dead of the night, keeping everyone awake on the eve of battle?"

"I—Excuse me?"

Zevran flashed her an innocent smile. "You needn't look so affronted, my dear lady," he snickered, "you've done your duty, and more. Still…" he gave her the once over, "you look tense. If I may venture a guess, perhaps the love nest has grown stale? I can certainly impart some wisdom on the matter, should you wish."

"Must everything revolve around bedroom antics with you?" she asked with exasperation.

"Who said anything about a bedroom? Have a little imagination, my dear lady. You Fereldens are so prudish."

"Well, it's very kind of you to offer, Zevran," she put on a forced smile, "but the 'love nest' is fine as it is."

"Still, I must insist."

"If we ever find ourselves in need of your services, I will not hesitate to ask," she humoured him with feigned seriousness, eager to put an end to the conversation.

"I am quite experienced in—"

"Oh look, is that Bann Tyber eating strawberries off a naked Wynne?" she pointed. The elf quickly turned to look, an instinctual reaction for one who has never squandered an opportunity to catch a woman (or man) in a compromising state of undress. Before he could stop her, Alecto slipped away.

"Not fair!" he called indignantly after her retreating figure.

* * *

Alecto wandered aimlessly through the palace. Zevran's words weighed heavily on her mind. She had done her duty, hadn't she? Avenged her family. Defeated the Blight. Raised a king worthy of Ferelden to its throne.

Yet, something didn't feel right, like a dark cloud that lingered in the sky long after the passing of a storm. There'd been a time, not long ago, when she had believed wholeheartedly in her doings. She had made decisions that went against every moral and principle instilled in her by her parents. She had killed and she had betrayed, lied and connived, intimidated and extorted, made bargains with lunatics and demons, all in the name of defeating the Blight. And she had done it without regret because she knew someone had to do it, and it sure wasn't going to be Alistair.

Yet, she had also believed, perhaps erroneously, that at the end of all her undertakings, she would find justification, forgiveness, and most importantly, resolution. It was a romantic notion, and a foolish one. She knew this now.

She found Alistair in the training yard, looking equally miserable and hacking away at a wooden dummy. She joined him on the field.

"Shouldn't you be knee-deep in the pile of paperwork Eamon brought over this morning?" she asked him.

His face brightened when he saw her. Alistair flashed her a wide grin, eyes glinting with mischief, "I escaped when he wasn't looking."

Despite herself, Alecto found herself smiling back. He had this effect on her.

He pulled her into his arms and leaned in to place a kiss on her lips. She turned her face away but did not disentangle herself from the warmth of his body.

"Not here, Alistair," she murmured, casting a wary glance at Arl Berengard and his knights, who were training at the far end of the yard.

The look of hurt on his face was palpable. She felt the chill of the winds upon her skin as he released her from his embrace.

"What we're doing is hardly a secret, you know?" he leaned against the dummy, "we haven't exactly been discreet—"

"Regardless," she replied briskly, "I don't want to give them any reason to talk more than they already do."

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

"Should I be?"

"No—I don't know," he gave her a worried look, "you've been acting very…strange lately."

She traced her fingers over the wooden surface of the dummy, examining the fresh scars where his sword had found its mark.

"Shoddy work, Alistair," she murmured, "it took you three hits here to find the heart."

He scoffed but nonetheless leaned closer to examine the marks. "Yeah, well," he shrugged, "I can still best you in a fight."

She straightened and turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

A cocky smile tugged at his lips. "Scared you're going to lose?"

* * *

Alecto couldn't remember the last time they had sparred. Must've been ages ago. Before he became king, surely. Maybe even before the Deep Roads. She donned her armour and returned with her daggers in hand. He was waiting diligently in the training yard for her, looking every bit the young, warrior king she remembered from the night of the assault to reclaim Denerim.

Plus a touch of smugness which she would soon wipe from his face.

"Do we have terms?" he smirked.

"Best out of three bouts," she tested the ground, toeing the fine layer of snow with her boot.

"Your wish is my command," he bowed his head playfully.

She unsheathed her daggers and adopted a defensive stance. He drew his sword and struck it loudly against his shield. They circled each other slowly but deliberately, neither willing to make the first move.

"I know what you're doing," he stepped carefully to his right, eyes warily watching her, "you intend to draw me out. Force me to make the first move. Well, I'm not falling for—"

She kicked a cloud of snow into the air and lunged. With his vision momentarily obscured, he raised his shield in time to narrowly deflect the first hit. The second grazed lightly against his throat. A sidestep later and she was behind him, with her dagger firmly pressed against the nape of his neck.

"You cheated," he said.

She shrugged and stepped back. "And I won the point."

Alecto allowed him a moment to gather himself before they resumed their positions. This time, he attacked first, delivering a powerful blow which missed her barely. He swiped his shield forward. She jumped back and nearly lost her footing. Alecto gritted her teeth as she dodged another blow.

Their duel soon drew an audience. Arl Berengard and his men came over and circled around them, along with a small drove of courtiers and servants. Here was a sight one didn't see everyday, she thought, the King of Ferelden and its Hero, sweating profusely as they try to decapitate each other.

Alecto struggled to regain the offensive, but her riposte fell uselessly against his shield. When he put his mind to it, she thought with grudging admiration, his defences were near impenetrable. A forceful bash from her left sent her reeling into the snow. She found herself looking up into the glint of cold steel.

"One - one," said Alistair.

They were both breathing heavily. She pulled herself up and readied for the last bout. The crowd fell silent in anticipation.

She took a deep breath and pushed forward, faking a lunge from the right before changing direction at the last moment to attack his left flank. He parried the blow and countered with a low blow that grazed against her hip. They fell into a familiar rhythm of thrusts and swipes, lunges and parries. The crowd marvelled and cheered.

"Maker's balls!" she cried out as he once again blocked her blows. Alistair took advantage of her frustration by delivering two quick, successive hits with his shield. She narrowly dodged the first. A careless step took her off balance. The second blow caught her on the jaw. There was a sickening crunch as she dropped to one knee.

"Andraste's fucking knickers," she mumbled and tasted metal in her mouth. The snow stained red with drops of her blood.

No stranger to physical pain, she wiped the blood and saliva from her mouth with the back of her gloved hand. A split lip, maybe a dislocated jaw, she surveyed her injury, could've been worse.

Immediately, he was by the side, sword and shield discarded on the ground.

"Maker," he breathed as he knelt beside her, "I didn't mean—I'm so sor—"

She could feel a hundred pairs of eyes on them. Alecto pushed away his helping hand vehemently.

"Don't. Apologize." She hissed through blood and gritted teeth.

Didn't he understand? Had he no sense of self-preservation? No awareness of what it meant to be king? He looked the part, why couldn't he act like one?

As if sensing the crowd around them for the first time, he waved them away. The onlookers dispersed reluctantly, still murmuring under their breath about what had just transpired.

She forced herself up with the support of her daggers.

"I—" he began but was immediately cut off.

"Never. Ever. Apologize to anyone in public again," she snarled. Sentiment was a weakness, and it was most unbecoming in a king. Sentiment had killed her father, when he fooled himself into believing Howe was his friend even when signs emerged to the contrary. Sentiment had killed Cailan, who trusted the traitor Loghain with his life. She could not—would not—let others think Alistair was weak.

They stared at each other in silence.

From the distance, a familiar figure approached. Alecto cursed Eamon's uncanny ability to always find them at their worst. But the Arl made no comment about their appearance. His face was grave.

"We have a problem."

* * *

**Next Chapter** - The Quality of Mercy - Alistair must make a difficult decision as trouble brews in the Bannorn.


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